


Home Sweet Home

by amscray_punk



Series: Yes, Chef [3]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: 5 minutes of angst, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Race wants to Talk, idk what else to say tbh, sprace figuring themselves out, that's a good tag for it, they're idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26794708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amscray_punk/pseuds/amscray_punk
Summary: Maybe, just maybe, tonight would be the night that he worked up the courage to talk to Spot about it. About them.Race wants to Talk.*Picks up immediately after Call It Payback.**Rating for language, sexual references and suggestive situations. Oh also smoking. Again, if you think it needs to be rated higher, please let me know and I'm happy to adjust it.
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Series: Yes, Chef [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953946
Comments: 25
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hii. I went ahead and tied the restaurant AU into a series because, well, we're at three works and counting so, it had to be done. That are-we or aren't-we conversation Race wanted to have? This is it. Well, part of it. Enjoy :)

The ride from the restaurant to Spot’s apartment was mercifully short.

Spot, unlike Race, lived by himself, which was a big reason they often ended up there after their shifts. His apartment was nicer than Race’s by a fair amount, but Race supposed that came with the territory of being a functioning adult with a salaried job—which, he realized with a start, he himself would be in a matter of days. The step up to assistant manager wasn’t a huge one, but the salary bit was new, and he was equal parts excited and terrified to see what life without a steady stream of cash tips would be like. 

Not only that, he remembered as he danced impatiently behind Spot while he unlocked the front door, but he and Spot would be on equal footing. Spot would no longer be in a position of authority over him, and while there was a small, mischievous part of him that would mourn that fact, Race had to admit he was intrigued to see what that meant for them. 

Them. Were they a ‘them,’ even? Race was uncharacteristically quiet as Spot  _ finally _ opened the door and he pushed past him, making a beeline for the bathroom. 

“Jesus, Racer,” Spot griped as he stumbled, kicking the door shut behind him. Race spun around without slowing down, walking backwards toward the hall.

“You wanna shower first, you gotta be quicker than that,” He quipped, lifting his shoulders in a shrug.

“Nah, you earned it,” Spot admitted as he shrugged out of his chef coat. Race’s eyes lingered on him a moment, taking in his arms and the bit of his chest that was visible thanks to his undershirt. Spot caught him looking and winked. “I’ll meet ya there.”

The promise sent a flutter through his stomach and Race rolled his eyes at himself as he stepped into the immaculately clean bathroom. His mind began to wander again as he unbuttoned his shirt, remembering the way Spot had done so earlier that night—it couldn’t have been more than an hour or so, and yet the idea of Spot joining him in the shower was still enticing. He stripped quickly, kicking his dirty clothes into a pile he knew Spot would hate, and hung his tie on the doorknob. He set the water to an almost punishing temperature and stepped eagerly inside.

Race moaned in relief when the water hit him, the heat shocking at first but he quickly relaxed into it. He let his eyes fall closed as the water washed over him, taking some of his tension with it. He wasn’t sure why he was so nervous. He almost spent more time at Spot’s apartment than his own, although he was sure his roommate didn’t mind that, as long as he still paid his portion of the bills. It was just so  _ easy _ to hang around work until Spot was done, ride home with him and play house, away from the restaurant; away from the rules that were supposed to keep them apart.

But the rules  _ didn’t _ keep them apart, not even at work. Hell, the first time they’d given in had been at the restaurant, albeit in the parking lot after everyone else had gone home. Race remembered, months ago, ambushing Spot in his office, much like he’d done earlier that day, although he’d simply asked him for a ride home. Spot had hesitated, just long enough to make Race panic before he’d set his jaw and nodded wordlessly. And yeah, Race had  _ hoped  _ the proximity and privacy of the car ride would have been enough to prompt Spot into action. But he hadn’t expected the urgency with which Spot had dragged him in for a kiss that was straight out of Race’s daydreams; impatient and demanding and—

Race was pulled from his memory by the sound of the bathroom door opening and closing and he smiled instinctively. They’d been practically inseparable since that night, outside of work, and Race knew  _ he  _ wasn’t seeing anyone else. He couldn’t imagine Spot was either; they were together often enough that he was fairly sure he’d have noticed, or at least suspected. But he’d never outright asked him, and Spot wasn’t exactly the talk-about-your-feelings type. Spot was more the type to assume he was coming home with him every night, and Race was the type not to argue against his own interests.

Race was essentially done by the time Spot stepped in, but he reached for him anyway, grateful for the space in the stand-up shower as they were both covered by the spray. Spot went willingly, sliding his arms around Race’s waist as he tipped his chin up for a kiss; expectant and sure. Just to be a little shit, Race kissed the tip of his nose, which Spot wrinkled adorably—not that Race would ever call him  _ adorable  _ to his face—before he obliged and kissed him properly. The last bits of winter chill drained from him as Spot held him, skin slick against his and the feeling sent his heart racing.

That was another thing. The way he wanted Spot was unlike anything he’d felt in any other relationship, even if ‘relationship’ wasn’t technically the right word. It was constant. Spot was attractive, yes, devastatingly so. And there  _ was  _ that extra layer of scandal that made every touch just a little bit hotter, every catch of their gaze more meaningful. But still they were drawn to each other like magnets; almost involuntary. Their encounter in the wine closet may as well have been days ago for as eagerly as they kissed, there in the shower. Race spun them around carefully so that Spot was directly in the spray; his mouth opened slightly when the water hit his skin and Race took advantage, running his tongue along Spot’s bottom lip. He swallowed the hungry sound Spot made, letting out a quiet gasp of his own when he felt Spot’s grip on him tighten. He pressed into him, running his hands over Spot’s chest and shoulders and up into his hair—

“Racer,” Spot gasped, pulling back just enough to speak. Race’s fingers tightened in his hair, instinctively wanting to pull him back in.

“Yes?” He prompted innocently, biting on his bottom lip. He watched Spot’s eyes dart to his mouth and he had to fight to hold back a smirk; Spot didn’t try to hold back his smile, not this time. Not here.

“You’re insatiable,”

Race raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“And nothing,” Spot chuckled, shaking his head. He hadn’t moved his arms from Race’s waist. Race smirked.

“You love it.”

“You’re not wrong,” Spot replied, tipping his chin up to press a rather chaste kiss to Race’s lips before he pointedly pulled away. “I can think of a better place for this, though…” Race grinned, giving a gentle tug of Spot’s hair before he slid his hands down to his shoulders. “Meet you there.”

“’Kay,” Race agreed happily, ducking down to steal one more kiss before he untangled himself from Spot’s arms and stepped out. He dried quickly and made his way to Spot’s bedroom, rummaging through his drawer—God,  _ his  _ drawer, full of Race’s sweatpants and T-shirts, a couple extra work shirts and pairs of pants. He dressed on autopilot, lost in thought, entirely forgetting to grab a shirt. In a way, the drawer spoke for itself. So did his toothbrush, kept not in a bathroom drawer but on the counter, in the holder next to Spot’s. So did the phone charger on his— _ his _ —side of the bed, made for a Samsung, not an iPhone like the one on the other side. Yeah, he was  _ sure  _ Spot wasn’t seeing anyone else. But. He wanted to hear him say it.

Race heard the water shut off as he shuffled across the room and flopped, diagonally, across the neatly made bed. He was still there, face down, when Spot came in. Race heard him snort, heard the dresser drawer open and quickly realized he was missing out on a rather spectacular view. He rolled onto his side, propping his head up with a hand as he watched Spot dry off and dress in sweatpants and a soft T-shirt. Spot caught his gaze in the mirror and lifted an eyebrow. Race offered him a dazzling smile, patting the bed with one hand. Spot sighed but obliged, rolling onto the bed and mirroring his position.

“You have no sense of order, you know that?” Spot sounded amused and his eyes almost twinkled and fuck, Race was falling hard. Well. Had fallen.

“Life’s no fun without a little chaos, Spotty,” Race replied sagely, nodding. Spot chuckled.

“S’pose that’s true,” He murmured, reaching out with his free hand to brush his knuckles across Race’s cheekbone. Race’s breath hitched. “You do make life more interesting.”

“S’that so?”

“Mmhmm,” Spot nodded as he ran his fingers down the side of Race’s neck and over his bare chest, coming to rest lightly at the base of his throat. Race swallowed, thoughts drawn immediately back to the shower, moments ago. He drew a deep breath, trying to stay focused.

“So I guess you’re gonna keep me around then, huh?” Race could feel his heartrate pick up and he forced himself to look up into Spot’s eyes. Spot looked briefly surprised by the question before he shrugged a shoulder casually.

“At least through the winter, anyway.” Race smacked him in the chest, laughing.

“Speaking of, I’m freezing,”

“Maybe ‘cause you’re not wearing a shirt, and you’re on top of the covers.”

“And you keep your apartment as cold as the walk-in,” Race grumbled; Spot rolled his eyes, pushing up into a seated position. He offered a hand to Race and nodded at the side of the bed furthest from the door.

“Get in your spot,”

“Oh,  _ my  _ spot, is it?” Race challenged, eyebrows raised as he slid across the bed and under the covers. He reached out, tugging at the hem of Spot’s shirt. “I thought  _ you  _ were my Spot.”

“Oh my God, Racer,” Spot laughed as he grabbed the remote and slipped into bed next to him. Race curled up to him immediately, still adamantly refusing to wear a shirt—who needed it? Spot was plenty warm enough for the both of them.

“Whaaat?” He whined, resting his head on Spot’s chest. Spot’s arm circled him protectively and he snuggled closer.

“What do you wanna watch?” Spot asked, navigating to Netflix. Race shrugged; his heart was still beating rather quickly, the question burning a hole in his throat the longer he waited.

“I don’t care.”

“Doomsday Preppers it is,”

“Nooo!”

“I thought you didn’t care?”

“I do,” Race nuzzled into Spot’s neck, smiling when he heard the familiar, upbeat intro music of Parks and Recreation. “This is what I meant.”

“I know,” Spot said, turning his head to drop a kiss into Race’s hair. Race felt his chest warm with affection and he couldn’t hold it in anymore. He turned so he could see the TV, one hand twisted tightly into the material of Spot’s shirt. He took a deep breath and let it out in an exaggerated sigh of contentment.

“Home sweet home,” He murmured, heart absolutely pounding now. There was a beat of silence where he thought his words may have gone over his head. Then Spot sighed, a little heavily, and paused the show.

“Okay, you’ve been on that all day,” He said, not unkindly. “What’s bothering you?” Race shrugged; his nerve seemed to have left him as quickly as it had arrived. Spot squeezed him gently. “What, now you got nothin’ to say?”

“Fine,” Race huffed, steeling himself. “What is this?”

A beat. “What’s what?”

“Ugh,” Race lifted a hand in a vague gesture. “This, you and me. What we’re doing here.”

“I don’t—”

“Don’t say you don’t know what I mean, Spot, I swear to God,” Race groaned, eyes still on the frozen image of Leslie Knope and her infectious smile. Spot was quiet for a moment too long. Race huffed a soft laugh. “What, now you got nothin’ to say?” Spot’s sigh was weary again, and Race’s stomach flipped nervously.

“Whaddaya want from me, Racer?”

Race pushed against the bed until he was sitting, his skin already mourning the loss of Spot’s embrace. He shivered, looking down at him. “I wanna know what you’re thinkin’ and feelin’, where this is going, if—” He paused, shrugging a shoulder before he finished quietly. “If it’s going somewhere at all.” Spot’s dark eyes were concerningly unreadable as he looked steadily back at him. Race saw his jaw twitch, just slightly.

“Do you want it to?”

“Don’t deflect,” Race frowned. “I asked you.” Spot dropped his head back against the pillows.

“Fuck, do we have to talk about this right now?” He groaned, closing his eyes. “It’s late, I have that luncheon tomorrow—”

“You know what no, yeah, I do wanna talk about this right now,” The words were out before Race thought them through—surprising no one—but he found he didn’t want to take them back. His voice held a confidence he didn’t quite feel, but he decided to run with it. He pulled his legs in so he was sitting cross-legged, facing Spot. He waited until Spot looked back at him before he continued. “Twice today you called me ‘baby’ at work,  _ twice  _ you referred to this place—” he gestured with his hands at the room around them, “—as  _ home _ when speaking directly to me. You make me dinner without me asking. You’ve got a drawer of my clothes over there, for fuck’s sake. I know we’ve had to keep it quiet at work because of my position but that’s basically a non-issue now, Sean.” Spot’s eyebrow lifted almost imperceptibly when he heard his name, but he didn’t interrupt. “And I know  _ I’m  _ not sleepin’ with anyone else,” He paused, trying to gauge Spot’s reaction, but he gave him nothing.  _ Fuck it.  _ “Not like I haven’t had offers.”

Well. That did  _ something. _ Spot sat up properly, scowling, and the sudden jealous spark in his eyes lit a hopeful one in Race’s chest, despite the tension in the air.

“Goddamnit, Racer,”

Race threw his hands up. “What?”

“You don’t get it,” He sighed, not quite angry but on the way there.

“How the hell can I get it if you won’t talk about it?”

“Fine,” Spot snapped, and Race had only a split second to feel regret before he went on. “You have no idea how fucking hard I worked to get where I am, do you? You think they just hand out head chef positions when you graduate culinary school? Ja—”

“Oh, fuck off,” Race interrupted indignantly. “I’ve been in restaurants since I was a teenager, I know that’s not how it works—”

“Then  _ maybe  _ you can understand why I have to be professional at work—”

“Yeah, wine closet blow jobs are  _ real  _ professional,”

Spot clenched his jaw, grinding out the words. “Jacobi took a chance on me, and if I screw it up—”

“So being with me would screw it up?” Race scoffed, almost a laugh.

“What—no, I didn’t say that, fuck, Racer,” Spot groaned, dropping his head into his hands. Race chewed on the inside of his cheek, hoping Spot couldn’t feel how he was trembling. Spot didn’t look back up. “You don’t get it. It’s… it’s a risk. I mean, you don’t even care about this stupid job—”

“Who the fuck are you to tell me what I care about, huh? And what’s the risk, exactly?” His voice rose in both pitch and volume, but he was proud to hear that it was at least steady. “In a few days you won’t be my superior anymore, there won’t be any rules against us—” He cut off; suddenly couldn’t bring himself to say the word ‘dating.’ “Y’know what, fuck it. Never mind, forget I said anything.”

Spot sighed deeply. “Tony—”

“Nah,” Race shook his head, swinging his legs off the bed and standing abruptly. He ripped his phone charger out of the wall and stalked across the room to snatch a shirt—any shirt—from a drawer. “Not Tony. See,  _ Racer  _ sucks you off in the wine closet, and anywhere else you want it, but  _ Tony  _ isn’t worth the risk.”

Race couldn’t bring himself to look back before he slammed the bedroom door. He had half a mind to march out the front door, barefoot and in sweatpants, and go straight home. A quick glance at the clock shot down that admittedly terrible idea; it was well past one, and downright freezing outside. He threw himself onto the couch, immediately irritated by the smooth, cool leather. He shivered again, curling onto his side and drawing his knees up. He felt almost sick, his stomach still twisting with nerves. He wondered, not for the first time, why he’d felt it necessary to bring it up.

He could be in bed, warm and secure, cuddled into Spot’s side while they watched Parks and Rec—or maybe they would have gotten distracted, again. Maybe that was why they’d never talked about it before. But no; no, he had to not only bring it up, he had to push. And prod, and question—and then not bother to stick around for the answer. Race pushed off the couch with a frustrated grunt, heading for the hook near the door that held his coat. He shrugged into it, pulled up the hood and stepped onto the patio, not bothering to close the door softly.

He pulled his pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shoved one between his lips, already shivering.

“Fuck, c’mon,” He groaned when his lighter sparked four times in a row before it finally produced a weak flame. His relieved sigh almost blew it out before it finally caught and he inhaled deeply, leaning back against the glass door. The familiar burn in the hollow of his throat was soothing and he hated it; but the twisting in his stomach lessened, anyway, replaced by a sort of dull weight.

Race blew out a long stream of smoke; it mingled in the cold air with the mist of his breath, making the cloud seem much more impressive. That was one part of smoking he'd miss, when he did eventually quit.

He knew there was a chance the talk wouldn’t go as well as he wanted, but hearing Spot imply that he was a risk stung. A lot. He couldn’t make sense of it. What would Spot be risking by telling people? Jacobi adored and trusted him. The kitchen staff worshipped him. All of the servers were terrified of him, which was just how he liked it; the poor hostesses wouldn’t even set foot in the kitchen. The only thing he’d be risking would be telling them all that he'd fallen for  _ Race _ —and that was if, Race realized with a huff, he  _ had _ in fact, fallen for him.

Race thought he had. Had thought they were more. Had been sure enough to bring it up in bed, as though they’d have a quick little chat and be boyfriends before the intro was over. Race clenched his jaw, blowing smoke harshly through his nose. He hardly felt the cold, now, and he only distantly realized that was probably not a great thing. He tapped ash onto the patio almost spitefully. What was Spot embarrassed about, exactly? It couldn’t just be that he was front-of-house and Spot was the back-of-house boss—that rivalry was tried and true, but no one took it  _ that  _ seriously.

His cigarette was getting dangerously small, and he debated lighting another before a sharp gust of wind cut mercilessly through his coat.

“Shit,” He cursed, taking one last, long hit before he ground it out in the ashtray and hurried back inside. If Spot had come out after him, he’d gone back to bed; he tried not to think about how much that hurt. He wrapped his coat tighter around him as his feet carried him, out of habit, to the bathroom. Spot’s voice in his head, admonishing,  _ if you’re gonna ruin your lungs, at least brush your teeth so they don’t rot outta your head, too. _ His stomach lurched again as he spat into the sink, pointedly leaving his toothbrush on the counter rather than returning it to its place in the holder.

Race could smell the smoke on his clothes when he hung up his coat, such a contrast to the clean, fresh space. He curled up on the couch again, knowing the smell would linger there, and on the blanket. The fact gave him a dark, stinging little stab of satisfaction, knowing Spot would  _ have  _ to wash the blanket before he could use it again. His stomach flipped again as he realized he was still just… thinking about Spot. Wondered when that would stop. Or if. He plugged in his phone, squinting against the brightness as he set an alarm. He grimaced at the screen;  **_alarm set for four hours from now._ **

Maybe that was why Spot didn’t want to date him. Spot was so put together, so self-assured. He had a career he was passionate about, and not just a ‘stupid job.’ His apartment was always clean, organized; he was never late. Race couldn’t say the same. He felt like he had stumbled into the assistant manager position, and the closer it came to becoming official, the more unsure he was about it. He was rather comfortable with his current routine, thank you very much, and he was more than a little anxious about changing it. Maybe that’s all this was anyway, he mused as his eyes drifted closed. Maybe they’d just stumbled into a routine, and Spot didn’t care to make it permanent.

Race slept hard for four hours before he dragged himself—cold, exhausted, and pissed off—through rush hour traffic to sleep the rest of the morning away in his own, unmade, empty bed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanna be crystal clear that "human dumpster fire" is a term of endearment. Really.

Race didn’t  _ mean  _ to avoid Spot, exactly.

Really.

Well, okay, he may not have answered any of the texts he woke up to Wednesday afternoon. They were short, not particularly sweet, but distinctly annoyed and, if he flattered himself, even a little worried. And, yeah, maybe he used the front door when he got to work, but that was just because he’d taken the subway to get there. He stayed out of the kitchen, but that was mostly because he was stuck behind the bar, training his replacement. And if he put a little more effort into it than he normally would, well, he was just trying to make a good impression. After all, this had been  _ his  _ bar for the last two years, and dropping it into poorly trained hands would just end up creating more work for him in his new role.

It certainly didn’t hurt that the new guy was pretty cute. Not tall, per se, but handsome in that pretty boy sort of way, and it was obvious he was in good shape. Tommy, Race reminded himself for at least the fifth time that day, was busy handling the prep work, slicing lime wedges and stocking olives, when the door to the kitchen whirled open. Race saw the movement out the corner of his eye and checked his watch; that’d be Henry, right on time to prep the beer batter. He turned his back to the door, twisting a rag idly in his hands.

“Every day around this time, the chef’ll send someone out to get beer for the fish batter,” He explained, nodding toward the beer taps. “We always use the IPA.” Tommy followed his gaze, giving a silent nod of understanding—Race hoped he wasn’t this quiet when the bar was full—before glancing over Race’s shoulder. Race saw Tommy’s eyes widen a fraction and he frowned, turning.

Oh. Not Henry.

Spot, in all his head chef glory, stood on the other side of the bar and Race only just remembered to fight off the smile that came so easily at the sight of him. He looked incredible, as always, no sign that anything had kept him up the night before—and maybe it hadn’t. Race clenched his jaw briefly before putting on his best customer service face and turning back to Tommy.

“Apparently, today the chef sent himself. Tommy, this is the head chef, Sean Conlon,” Race gestured to him vaguely, not daring to look at him again; his heart was beating fast enough as it was. “Chef, this is the new head bartender, Tommy.”

“Nice to meet ya,” Spot’s tone sounded sincere enough as he reached across the bar to shake Tommy’s hand.

“Hey, you too,” Tommy said, offering him a rather dazzling smile. Hm. Nice teeth, too.

“You’ll call him Chef, of course,” Race explained as he took the container from Spot, pointedly avoiding any accidental brushes of hands. He quizzed Tommy on the draft beer selections while the container filled, making sure to touch him lightly on the shoulder or the forearm when he got an answer right. He was careful, of course, not to step over the professional boundary—but he could feel Spot’s eyes on him, heat on the back of his neck. Good. He picked up the full container and set it carefully on the bar. “Oh, and always make sure we have the IPA in stock,” Race added, clearly speaking to Tommy but locking his eyes onto Spot’s. “Chef is  _ very _ particular about his recipes, and that’s not a risk you wanna take.”

Race watched just long enough to see Spot’s jaw clench in annoyance before he backed out of the bar. “I have some paperwork to do, Tommy, but I’ll be back by the time the servers get here. Just finish up the fruit, ‘kay?” Tommy nodded and Race brushed past Spot on his way to the kitchens. He didn’t even slow down to greet the cooks on his way through, heading to the back office that was almost-part-his, now; the one he’d soon share with the general manager. He dropped into the chair with a sigh, wincing when the door shut slightly harder than he’d meant for it to. He reached over and flipped the lock before turning to the desk and picking up a pen. He really  _ did  _ have paperwork to do, but he couldn’t make himself focus on the words in front of him.  _ Fuck.  _ One hell of a manager he’d make.

Mercifully—or perhaps not—he only had a moment to try before he was interrupted by a sharp rap on the door. His stomach flipped. Not a single employee currently in the building would knock like that, except one. He clenched his jaw, trying to tamp down the little spark of hope he felt in his chest.

He could explain away the texts easily enough; Spot had woken up to him gone, and he could feasibly have been worried for his safety. But they’d seen each other, now, and here Spot was, at  _ his  _ office door, this time. Race huffed a breath and rolled over to the door without getting out of his chair and unlocked it. He leaned back, lacing his fingers together behind his head. He was the picture of nonchalance when the door swung open and indeed it was Spot who stood in the doorway, one eyebrow raised. He looked almost nervously over his shoulder before turning back to Race, and he wasn’t able to hide the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“Can we talk?” Race’s eyebrows shot up.

“Well, well, well,” He drawled, lips drawn into a smirk. “How the turntables.”

Spot let out a quiet groan that sounded suspiciously like  _ Racer, _ eyes rolling automatically toward the ceiling—but Race caught the reluctantly amused quirk of his lips and he chuckled, almost to himself. He sat up straight, gesturing for Spot to enter the office.

“Of course, Chef, do come in,” He laid it on thick, that formal, overly professional air. Spot went to close the door and Race hissed through his teeth, grimacing. “Let’s leave the door open, shall we? Wouldn’t want anyone to think anything… unprofessional is going on in here.”

Spot clenched his jaw so hard Race was momentarily worried about his teeth before he stepped into the office and pointedly closed the door behind him, leaning against it.

“Racer—”

“Have you decided about the special tonight, Chef? I’ll need to let the servers know as soon as possible,” Race went on as though Spot hadn’t spoken, determined to address him by his title no matter how difficult it became. He hoped his mockingly thoughtful expression didn’t betray the way his heart was pounding. “I know you said you were thinking about Italian—”

“Damn it, Tony,” Spot pushed off the door and took a step closer. Race held up a hand and Spot stopped; he looked vaguely annoyed as he stepped back against the door. Good.

“Racer’s fine, Chef,” He said coolly, daring to look him in the eyes. “Don’t wanna get too familiar with my coworkers, y’know. Speaking of, what’d ya think of the new guy? Did you hire him? He’s cute, don't ya think? Not quite twinky enough for you, though—”

“Fuckin’ hell, Racer,” Spot growled, properly annoyed now. “You know what this is about.”

Race raised his eyebrows, feigning ignorance. His heart pounded once, hard. “Are you sure this conversation is appropriate to have on the premises, Chef?”

“Enough,” Spot snapped, pushing off the door again to invade Race’s personal space. “Enough with the ‘Chef’ bullshit. I get it, you’re mad, you’re hurt—”

“Who said I’m hurt? Or mad, for that matter?” Race knew the protest was proof enough, but keeping his mouth shut had never been his specialty.

“—but I wanna talk about this,” Spot finished, speaking over Race as he gestured between them with a hand. Race narrowed his eyes but said nothing, biting back another sarcastic response. He didn’t  _ really  _ want to drive Spot away; was rather curious to see what he had to say. Spot waited just long enough to see if Race was going to interrupt before he continued, his voice decidedly softer in both volume and tone. “But not here. You’re not closing tonight, right?” Race shook his head. “Me either, I’m actually heading out soon. Will you—” Spot stopped abruptly, swallowed, and sighed before he tried again. “Will you come home, when you’re off?”

Race chewed on the inside of his cheek, just watching him.  _ Home.  _ He’d said it on purpose, that time, there was no doubt. His stomach flipped again. Spot looked almost nervous, and a small, vindictive part of Race wanted him to sit in it, for a moment. Understand how he’d felt the night before, curled into a ball on the couch just one room away. Spot could have fixed this then, if he’d wanted to.

“Please, Racer,” Spot sighed. “I’ll pick you up.”

Race couldn’t deny, especially to himself, that this was what he’d wanted from Spot. Some kind of indication that he wasn’t crazy, wasn’t reading too far into his words and gestures.  _ Goddamnit, am I in love with this asshole?  _ Race breathed a soft sigh, giving a nod of his head.

“Yeah,” He agreed, roughly. “I’ll text you.”

“Okay, good,” Spot nodded, and the clear relief in his tone breathed life into that hopeful spark Race was still trying to ignore. 

Spot showed up behind the restaurant a little after eight. Race hopped in the car quickly, not particularly caring that it made him look a little too eager; he was just fucking cold, really. He rubbed his hands together once inside, trying to coax more warmth into his body, with little success. Spot turned the heat up and Race shot him a hesitantly grateful look. 

"How was work?" Spot asked, trying and for the most part succeeding in appearing completely normal. Race narrowed his eyes, more than a little jealous of Spot’s ability to keep his emotions off his sleeve. He shrugged, looking out the window. 

"Fine," It had been, for the most part, aside from when he'd forgotten to eat dinner. His stomach growled, almost on cue. Tommy was going to be a good fit, Race could already tell. He opened his mouth to tell Spot as much, before he remembered he was supposed to be mad at him. Not only that, but of course it had been  _ Tommy _ that he'd taunted Spot with, earlier in his office. So, in a herculean effort, he kept his mouth shut for the rest of the ride. 

Everything about this was achingly familiar. The car ride, the neighborhood. The walk to the front door, braced against the frigid wind; waiting for Spot to let them in. Race was expecting the apartment to be clean and orderly, as always; what he wasn't expecting was the delicious, comforting smell that greeted him. Race made it to the coat hook before he stopped dead. 

"You cooked." He said, stupidly. 

"I do that, you know," Spot said, nodding. "For money." 

Race rolled his eyes and hung up his coat. "Shut up. You never cook after work. And what—" He paused to sniff the air, following the scent almost cartoon-like to the kitchen. A large Dutch oven simmered on the stove, the lid keeping its contents a mystery. "What'd you make?" His surprise and curiosity weren't enough to drown out the part of his brain that reminded him he was supposed to be angry; but they were enough to tell it to  _ hang on a minute, will ya?  _

Spot hesitated, and Race turned to look at him, a quizzical eyebrow raised. Maybe it was from the cold, but Spot almost looked like he was flushed. 

"It's chili mac." He said, finally. Race’s jaw dropped. 

“ _ What _ ?"

"You heard me."

"You made… chili mac." 

"Yes, Racer, Jesus," Spot huffed, turning to fill the two bowls he had set on the counter, grumbling under his breath. Race grinned in spite of himself, watching him.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why’d ya cook, and why’d ya make chili mac?” When Spot just looked at him out the corner of his eye, Race pressed on. “No, I mean it. Fancy chef leaves his fancy restaurant to come home and make chili mac? Why?”

Spot groaned. “You know why.”

“Oh, I know why,” Race confirmed, accepting the bowl Spot pushed into his hands. “I want you to say it.” 

Spot handed him a spoon wordlessly, shooting him a look that would normally have shut him up, at least for a minute. But now he pushed his luck—pushed it even further when he set his bowl on the counter and hoisted himself up next to it. His grin only grew when he saw Spot’s jaw twitch, but he didn’t tell him to get down. Race tucked into his dinner, fighting the urge to roll his eyes back in his head; it was incredible. Of course it fucking was. 

Spot took his time answering, leaning his back against the counter across from him as he picked up his own bowl. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment, just watching Race. 

“You asked me to make it one week for the tailgate and I…”

“Adamantly refused,” Race supplied for him, nodding encouragingly. 

“I may have been a little… pretentious.”

“You were an ass.”

“Well, I’m an ass, sometimes,” 

“You don’t say?” Race gasped, clutching at his chest. 

Spot sighed, setting his bowl down on the counter before turning to face him again. He crossed his arms over his chest, then uncrossed them. Finally, he pushed away from the counter and took one deliberate step toward Race. One hand raised, as if it were going to rest on Race’s thigh where he sat on the counter, but he ran it through his hair instead, bringing it to rest on the back of his neck. Race watched Spot’s face; the way he pursed his lips, the way the tension in his jaw gradually faded. The way his eyes softened when they reached his and the way he swallowed hard before he spoke.

“I’m sorry, Tony,” He finally said, voice soft but clear, and steady. Race set his bowl aside. He raised an eyebrow, wordlessly encouraging Spot to continue. “For everything. For last night, for not saying the right thing.”

“I don’t want you to say the  _ right  _ thing, Spot,” Race explained, gently. “I want ya to tell me the truth, I want you to be honest with me.”

“I know, and that’s the least I can do, I know,” Spot agreed quickly, dropping his hand to rest lightly on Race’s knee. Race swallowed, heartrate picking up from the simple, intimate touch. “And I was, but I wasn’t—fuck, I’m really not good at this, Racer. The… words part.” He sighed. “Look. I was always taught to keep my private life and my professional life separate. And that worked just fine for me. Until it didn’t.” 

“Until…?”

“Until you, obviously,” Spot gave a gentle squeeze of his knee and Race almost smiled; there he went again, saying what he wanted to hear. “Look at me, Racer.” 

Race obliged; Spot, face upturned, eyes wide and clear and gorgeous, a little nervous but undeniably sincere. 

“I’m lookin’,” He whispered.

“You  _ are _ worth the risk. You’re worth all of it and then some, do you hear me?” Spot’s voice shook just slightly and Race was sure his heart would pound out of his chest. He cleared his throat softly.

“Then why…?” He lifted a hand in a vague, twirly gesture. Spot opened his mouth, closed it, and was quiet a moment; he almost looked embarrassed.

“Y’know I didn’t become a chef to be a manager, right?”

“I—what?” Race asked, confused. “I mean, yeah I figured it was because you… like to cook?”

“Right,” Spot agreed, nodding. “But I don’t get to just cook. I have to wrangle an entire kitchen’s worth of dumbasses who, without  _ constant  _ guidance, would positively burn the fuckin’ place to the ground.” 

Race snorted, picturing the kitchen staff. Spot may have a point. 

“I like to think I run a tight ship, Racer, but you gotta understand—I mean, you said yourself you’ve worked in restaurants forever. We’re all human dumpster fires, it’s a wonder we make it through the dinner rush, sometimes.” Spot seemed more relaxed now, the words coming easier as he brought his other hand to rest on Race’s leg. Race put his hand on top, gently. “My point is, I have to toe the line between being their friend and being their boss, and I don’t… if they think—”

“What, that you have feelings?” Race was only half joking. 

“No, not that,” Spot shook his head, frowning as he thought. “If they think for a second that they can get away with something, they will. I just have to stay on top of them, or it’s my ass on the line, you know? If I lose control of them... It’s my menu, it’s my reputation, my name. Any one of them can go find another job in any of the hundreds of restaurants in this city but I have to work a lot harder. And if Jacobi thinks I’m distracted at work...”

Race slid off the counter, noting that Spot didn’t back up to give him more room; they were almost flush against each other, now, the height difference significantly lessened. He braced his hands against the counter—not quite ready to reach for Spot, but he didn’t protest when he felt Spot’s hands settle gently on his waist. 

“Y’know, Spot,” He said thoughtfully. “I think you worry too much.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Race nodded matter-of-factly. “First of all, Jacobi fucking  _ loves  _ you. Second, your entire staff is absolutely terrified of you—for that matter, so is mine, thanks for that, by the way.” Spot smirked. “But it’s not just that. They love you, too. They respect and admire you so much. I really doubt there’s anything you could do to change that.”

Spot absorbed his words for a moment. “I guess I only ever get to see the terror… and Al’s smartass mouth,” Spot grumbled, scowling. “I swear to God if he wasn’t the best cook I have—”

“Spot,”

“Yeah, sorry,” He muttered, turning back to him. His eyes were cast downward, and Race had a moment to admire his long, thick eyelashes before he looked back up and _fuck_ if those weren’t the darkest, most gorgeous eyes he’d ever seen. He rested his hands hesitantly on Spot’s chest; felt his sharp inhale against his palms. “Anyway, I… I don’t want this to change. I want you to keep comin’ home with me, and yeah I’m gonna keep callin’ it home ‘cause it turns out it only feels that way when you’re here, Tony.” The words came out in a rush but Race hung on every one, curling his fingers into the soft material of Spot’s shirt. 

“Spot, look, we don’t have to—”

“Yeah, we do,” Spot said, and when he met his eyes again Race knew without a doubt that he meant it. “We do, Racer. You’re right. This is more than wine closet blow jobs.”

“I’m flattered,” Race deadpanned. Spot rolled his eyes, sparkling with amusement now instead of annoyance.

“Damn you, Racer, you know what I mean,” Spot groaned. Race grinned.

“Look at you, you’re regretting this already, aren’t you?”

“Don’t tempt me,” He murmured, stepping a little closer to him; Race felt the counter pressing into his back. There was nowhere else he’d rather be. “Although, there is one thing—”

“Holy shit Spot, I was just jokin—”

“No, no,” Spot interrupted, laughing softly. “I was just going to say, I think we should be mindful of what it might look like if we tell everyone about us on the heels of your promotion.”

Huh. Well, that certainly was a thought—one that hadn’t occurred to Race at all. Of course  _ they  _ knew their relationship had nothing to do with his promotion, but the rest of the staff… it would have to be handled exactly right. As usual, Spot had thought this through more thoroughly than he had. Race bit his lip, considering. 

“That’s a good point,” He admitted. 

“But…”

“...but?”

“We could start with telling management,” Spot offered, and the hopeful note in his voice made Race’s heart ache in his chest. As if Spot thought even for a moment that that wasn’t exactly what Race wanted. He knew his own eyes were positively sparkling as he felt his mouth curve into a smile, almost of its own volition.

“Yeah?” Telling management meant telling Jacobi and the general manager, Jack Kelly—a reformed troublemaker who’d turned out to be a really great guy. Unorthodox management styles, at times, but he would have an absolute field day with this news. Telling management bought them a month, tops, before the entire restaurant knew—and Spot knew that. Race slid his hands around Spot’s shoulders, pulling him in so they were pressed flush together. “And what would we tell them, exactly?”

“That you’re an insufferable little shit and Jacobi has made yet another questionable management decision by promoting you?” 

“Oh my God, shut up,” Race’s head fell back as he laughed, feeling lighter than he had all day. Spot chuckled quietly. 

“Or we could just tell them that we’re, y’know, dating.” 

“Dating, huh?” 

“Yeah,” Spot’s answer was immediate and sure. “If you haven’t taken up any of those other offers yet, I mean.”

“What, ya jealous?” Race teased—maybe ‘insufferable’ wasn’t so off the mark, after all.

“Maybe I am,”

“Good,” Race murmured, allowing himself finally to focus on the feeling of Spot pressed against him, Spot’s arms around him; allowed his eyes to drop to Spot’s lips. “That was kinda the point.”

Spot only hummed in response before he tipped his chin up and closed the space between them. He kissed him with a hesitancy Race wasn’t familiar with, although his lips were the same as always; soft, warm, perfect. Relief hit him like a wave and he swayed a little on his feet, more grateful than ever for the counter behind him, Spot’s steady embrace. It didn’t take long for the hesitancy to melt away as Race pressed eagerly into him—and Spot responded like he always did, that deep, desperate hunger that made Race’s knees feel weak. He’d almost forgotten which room they were in when Spot pulled back. His voice was a little rough when he spoke.

“So, you gonna keep me around, or what?”

Race raked his eyes over Spot’s face, his eyes, pupils so wide and dark he almost couldn’t make them out, the barest flush on his cheekbones. How could he possibly resist? He didn’t even want to drag it out for a laugh, anymore; he nodded enthusiastically, knowing his smile was blinding.

“Yes,” He said, simply, although it sounded like something was missing. Spot squinted for a second before his eyes widened in understanding and he laughed outright.

“Oh my God, just say it, I know you want to.” Spot groaned, dropping his forehead against Race’s chest in defeat. Race positively giggled.

“Yes, Chef.”

“Insufferable.”


End file.
